


A King and his Horse

by calrissian18



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Bromance, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Consent Issues, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Hurt Stiles, Jealousy, M/M, No Alpha Pack, Pack Bonding, Pack Building, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, Panic Attacks, Pining, Stilinski Family Feels, Virgin Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-27 18:27:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calrissian18/pseuds/calrissian18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Erica watches him for a long moment and he knows that she can see it, that there’s something shifting under his skin, something that shouldn’t be there, something that, the last time it took a stroll, murdered a whole bunch of people.  She doesn’t address it because there’s something under her skin too and as long as it’s kept in check, it’s no one’s business but theirs.  </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A King and his Horse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anassa_anemou (kitsunesspblm)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=anassa_anemou+%28kitsunesspblm%29).



> There are random AU elements thrown in while this strolls through canon and only picks up the sweet-smelling flowers. Then pulls all the petals off, puts them in a bag and shakes them around… because it seemed like a good idea at the time? I had so much help and encouragement on this, through all the utterly different versions and interpretations of this prompt I went through – I am not fluffy enough for it and we can consider this proof positive, so to [Barbayat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Barbayat/) and [emeraldawn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/emeraldawn/): I owe you two a bigger debt than I can ever repay. You have made writing in this fandom so _fun_ and _this_ story so vastly improved and I cannot tell you how awesome that is. [Jonjo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Jonjo/) made me look comma-competent and like I speak English as my first language (nevermind that I do) but, I promise you, it is an _illusion_.
> 
> Also, Peter fucked off to Cancun for the duration because he’s selfish like that and he’s got a wolfy weakness for well-made mojitos.
> 
> Oh prompter, I am _absolutely_ certain this is not what you were looking for. *headdesk*

He’s Isaac’s friend first.  Isaac, who’s quiet and introverted until he isn’t.  Until he’s _loud_ and bluntly funny and has stopped throwing such wounded looks at an Allison-obsessed Scott.  Jackson doesn’t think he’s the only one who suspects he’s made the guy up entirely – and he could’ve done better with that because _Stiles_?  That’s not even a real name.  But his scent is subsumed by something new and crackling.  It’s not a proper _smell_ really.  At least not one Jackson can pinpoint, but he’s not exactly an old hat at this.  Very recently a homicidal reptile so… he’s not willing to bank on the scent not being _right_.  A few months ago he would have, confidently and snidely, but he’s a calmer personality now, since being at the center of a massacre.  Still one of the angriest people you could ever fear meeting, only now he’s taken a page out of Derek’s book and internalizes it.  He can’t exactly lash out anymore, not after turning into a genuine-article monster.  Keeping a low profile just seems prudent.

Derek, however, isn’t so reserved in his opinion.  He folds his arms over his chest and grunts.  “You smell like electricity.”  He’s flopped down on his couch.  The one that looks like he found it behind a dumpster.  The one Jackson won’t sit on.  He’s practically pouting.

Isaac smiles, doesn’t duck his head nervously the way he would have only a month ago. “It’s Stiles.  He smells like a lightning storm.  I don’t know why.”  He wrinkles his nose.  “After he takes his ADHD pills, he smells barren though.  Like a desert in the middle of a drought.”

He doesn’t talk for the rest of the Pack meeting and Scott pulls himself away from texting Allison long enough to realize, with a furrowed brow, that Isaac isn’t sitting at his side the way he always used to.  He’s fiddling with his phone himself and stands up while Derek’s mid-sentence.  Derek stops, eyes wide with disbelief, and stares at him.  Isaac is grinning, not looking at any of them, and he shakes his phone back and forth.  “Got to go, Stiles and I have plans.”  And then he’s out the door before anyone can stop him.

* * *

The problem is, Derek’s a shit Alpha.  Everyone knows it.  Jackson suspects Derek knows it better than any of the rest of them and he and Isaac had never really bonded properly to begin with.  It was Scott that kept him glued in and now his head’s up a hunter’s ass so that leaves Isaac as a wobbling piece.

Sadly, Derek’s Pack is such that if one piece wobbles, it could topple all the others.  And the pathetic truth of it is that Jackson needs this stupid mess of a Pack.  He’s fucked in the head, enough that he’d mutated the werewolf gene into something even more inhuman.  That’s Olympic levels of screwed up.

His only real friendship has become nothing more than friend _ly_ because he’s lied to Danny so many times that he doesn’t believe a word that comes out of his mouth.  And he doesn’t have Lydia anymore. He’s not sure he won’t somehow fall back into…

Lydia can say he won’t until she’s blue in the face.  But he hasn’t resolved one single iota of what led him there in the first place.  Only the Pack makes him feel like he’s standing on officially not-kanima ground.  However shaky that ground is.

He tries to take some comfort in the fact that he’d stared into Matt’s milky eyes before they zipped up the body bag over his face and that there was no way the cancer-ridden, poisoned, bitten old man hadn’t crawled off to die himself.  There was nothing left seeking to control him.  Not at the moment.  That and the Pack _had_ to be enough.

He sneers at Derek.  “Lahey’s going to start thinking of this Stiles kid as his Alpha if you don’t reach out to him.”

Derek’s eyes flash warningly but Jackson’s said his piece.  He’s not looking for an argument.  He’s looking for a cohesive Pack, at least cohesive enough that a new person blowing into town and taking an interest in one of them isn’t going to blast the whole thing apart.

* * *

The coffee shop is Jackson’s idea and his parents are still wary enough of him, of his unexplained disappearances, of his withdrawal from them and Danny and Lydia, of his secretive behavior that they give in to him without much pushing.  He calls it The Moon Under Water – after an Orwellian essay their English teacher, Ms. Blake, had them read – and takes Erica with him to see it first.

She’s as fucked up as he is.  In massively different ways.  She wears lipstick and low-cut tops like armor but she’s still the epileptic kid with the frizzy hair who’d pissed herself in public.  And it makes her mean, makes her want to _hurt_ and Derek’s given her the ability to do it.  Jackson’s not sure what she has that’s truly stopping her.  Her parents are absent and her Alpha is inexperienced.  It’s only a matter of time before she gives in to the wolf that rests just beneath the surface chanting, ‘rip, break, _kill_.’

Jackson knows because it’s only a matter of time for him, too.

Derek turned kids who needed it but he also turned kids who shouldn’t be given power and he didn’t think twice about it.  He’s going to have an army of spree killers on his hands before long, Jackson’s sure of it.

Erica squints up at it, the sun glancing off the old sign that’s half-falling down.  The one that says ‘The Coffee Bean.’  She snorts and pops her gum before going inside.

It’s small and the walls have been stripped, inexpertly, of the wallpaper that had covered them before.  The floor is strewn with plastic and plaster from the construction crew that had come in after the coffee place had moved out.  (When it was going to be taken over by an insurance agency, before they’d moved two doors down instead.)

Erica stands in the middle of the room, throws her head back and spins around in a circle and they’re _sixteen_.  It’s so fucking easy to forget.

“What do you think?”

Erica slows to a stop and blinks at him like she’s trying to decide how to phrase it.  In the end, she backs away from the answer entirely.  “I’m part-owner, right?”

“We all kind of are,” Jackson hedges.

Erica nods because, apparently, that’s not unexpected.  “My name comes first on any and all legal documents.  That’s R-E-Y-E-S, Whittemore.”

The wolf stretches and curls up contentedly in his chest.

* * *

He brings the rest of the Pack in all at once and lets Lydia and Erica start bickering over how to design it.  Jackson doesn’t really care all that much.  All he’d cared about was the name and getting them all there.  The rest is up to them.  He notices Isaac is on the edge of his seat, phone clutched in his fist and Jackson shoots Derek a subtle look.

His mouth purses but he says nothing to Isaac.

So Jackson does.  “Stiles is new in town, right?”

Isaac startles a bit at being addressed and Jackson swallows the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration.  Had it really been that long since any of them had gone out of their way to make him feel like Pack?  Isaac grins a little at the mention of Stiles and it’s pathetic how starved for friendship this kid has been.  Suddenly his latching onto McCall makes so much more sense.  “Yeah, he moved here from Baltimore a few months ago when his dad got transferred.  His dad’s the new Sheriff,” he explains further.

He notices the way the others unsubtly grow more alert.  Isaac’s never mentioned his new best friend’s dad was law enforcement.  But then none of them have ever asked.  It’s easy to forget about him.  He’s the underwhelming middle child, still your sibling and you’d lay down and die for him if need be, but often forgotten about or shuffled to the side.

Jackson, who actually knows something about nonchalance, shrugs a shoulder.  “Maybe we could offer him a job here once we get up and running?”

Isaac _beams_ at him and Jackson can feel something that was loose slotting back into place.

* * *

It takes three weeks.  One week for Lydia and Erica to cease fire and agree on the new aesthetic and two weeks for the construction and interior design to be finished.  Jackson’s certain his father’s money has a lot to do with the speed factor.

He comes home the night after it’s finished, eats dinner with his parents and pauses coming back from the kitchen after dropping off his plate in the sink.  He wraps his arms around his dad’s neck and he can see his mom’s eyes glisten in his periphery.

She looks away quickly.

Jackson squeezes tight for a second.  His dad pats his forearm.  And then he’s gone, up the stairs to his bedroom.

They get _Starting & Running a Business All-in-One for Dummies_ and Jackson’s dad helps them liaise with suppliers.  Boyd signs up for culinary classes at the annex.  Erica practically bullies Jackson’s dad into teaching her how to manage the books and Jackson later overhears him telling his mom, “She’ll make one hell of a businesswoman.  The word tenacious doesn’t even come close.”

Lydia orders their mugs and plates and designs their logo.  Some weird, dead tree she’s been drawing for months with a half-moon resting under it so it’s as if it’s growing out of a craterous basin.  It actually looks pretty business-appropriate when she finishes with it.

Isaac learns to work the register and how to use the different machines, the espresso and the coffee maker, so he can man the counter.

Scott takes care of the more menial tasks like arranging the deliveries and keeping track of their inventory.

Derek throws money at it whenever they need it because he’s Derek and he’s a burnt-out husk of a person that has nothing left but pragmatism and man-pain.

But, weirdly, it works.  Jackson thinks they could be open as early as next week.

Isaac pulls him aside after he’s master of his own domain behind the counter, a negligent tug at Jackson’s elbow like he’s forgotten how to be the confident, _loud_ person he’s been the past few weeks.  “Stiles?  Is that still… can I—”

“Yeah.”

Isaac lets out a breath and grins.  “I’ll bring him in tomorrow then.”

* * *

Jackson almost doesn’t notice Isaac’s got anyone with him until a new voice whistles and says, “I can’t believe you guys _own_ this.  Seriously, what rich dude with murdered parents do you know because this is Batman-levels of awesome.”

Isaac laughs but tries to quickly swallow it because he knows not one, but two people who fit that description.  He places his hand in the dip between Stiles’ shoulder blades and pushes him forward a tad.  “This is Stiles.  He’s a chronic sufferer of foot-in-mouth disease.”

Stiles turns back to look at him with an apologetic grimace.  “Shit.  Did I do it already, dude?”

Isaac just grins at him and pushes him forward a little more firmly.

And now Jackson knows why he hadn’t caught another scent when Isaac walked in.  Stiles is practically buried in Isaac’s, deep beneath that is the crackle of electricity and the heat and smoke of a brush fire.  He’s a natural disaster in human skin.

He thrusts out a hand to Jackson with a weak grin.  Isaac must have been nervous about them meeting to have scent-marked him so thoroughly, and likely unconsciously.

Jackson grasps his hand more for Isaac’s sake than any real desire and his wolf perks up instantly as if a shock’s run through it.  Stiles’ skin _sparks_ against his and it wakes something in him, something larger than his wolf, something that embodies more of him than just that.  It touches something _deep_ there, something that manifested the kanima in him the last time it was unearthed.  It’s an half-sick, half-exhilarated feeling, like he’s standing on a cliff and the wind is hitting him full in the face but also buffeting him closer to the edge.

Jackson rips his hand away and backs up a step without meaning to.

“Er.  That’s a… reaction, I guess.”  Stiles looks helpless as he tries to communicate something to Isaac using only his eyebrows.

The stray thought comes to Jackson that he and Derek would get along well.

Isaac frowns in commiseration with him before turning back to Jackson, looking only the slightest bit pleading now.  “So, terrible jokes aside, can I start teaching Stiles the basics?”

“Sure.”  He watches Stiles walk away and he’s awkward and lanky and his mind is clearly in a million different places at once but he checks back in with Isaac every few minutes through a brush of their forearms or a glance from his periphery and Jackson can see the attraction there.  Because Isaac is as starved for people as this kid is.

They put their heads together and laugh at something as Isaac teaches him how to work the register.  Jackson can’t make out the words because there’s a distant buzzing interrupting his concentration.  He stares at Stiles’ face though as he grins and smiles and laughs.  He’s got a mole on his cheek that only looks right when it’s stretched with a smile.  And it usually is, one that takes up half his face.

Jackson’s breath starts coming shorter and shorter and he breaks away for air, sitting on the curb outside and staring at his shaking fingers.

“He sucks that much?”

He looks up to find Erica squinting down at him.  Jackson hadn’t even heard her approach and, considering the height of her heels today, that’s saying something.

He tugs his lips up into a half-smile.  “He’s a DC fan.”

Erica watches him for a long moment and he knows that she can see it, that there’s something shifting under his skin, something that shouldn’t be there, something that, the last time it took a stroll, murdered a whole bunch of people.  She doesn’t address it because there’s something under her skin too and as long as it’s kept in check, it’s no one’s business but theirs.  She sniffs.  “Someone with good taste.  Finally.”

Jackson looks up at her and he doesn’t say ‘thank you’ but he thinks she hears it anyway.

* * *

Stiles is a quick study.  He moves at a speed all his own and Jackson keeps waiting for him to break something or spill sugar all over the counter but he’s got a grace to him that you wouldn’t expect, mostly because it doesn’t make _sense_ in conjunction with his jerky movements.  And – the not making sense – that fits him, too.

He schedules Stiles’ shifts completely opposite his own.  Being around Stiles and not wanting to _blanket_ him in his scent, to touch him in soft, almost unnoticeable ways is impossible and so it’s best they keep their distance.

Jackson’s known that since Stiles cornered him about three days after he’d been hired.  When he’d nervously stuttered his way through an apology, explaining that Isaac had told him about Jackson’s parents and that he’d felt like the world’s worst asshole.  Jackson had barely heard him, his eyes tracking the way that Stiles ruffled the back of his scruffy hair.  Hair that Jackson wanted to run his hands through, too.  Watching Stiles do it and knowing he couldn’t, had felt a lot like torture.

He’d forced himself back to the issue at hand and accepted Stiles’ apology, full-stop, while Isaac hovered in the background, eyes small and owlish.  Stiles had stuck out his hand then and Jackson had felt his wolf pace until he finally reached out and grasped it.  It let out a low howl, as if calling to something _else_ , something deeper in him, when their skin met.

When Jackson realized he was stroking the back of Stiles’ hand with his thumb, a crackle of energy playing between them, he’d pulled away with a start.

Since then, he’d made an effort to never be alone with him.  If he does see Stiles, the rest of the Pack is there and Jackson may want to vibrate out of his skin but he’s able to distract himself from it well enough.

* * *

Lydia finds the body a week later.  She hadn’t been looking for it.  Stiles tells them his dad thinks the same person’s responsible for the Heather girl’s disappearance.  Jackson barely remembers her even though he knows he’s seen her before.  She’d been taken right out of a wine cellar during her own birthday party before she could even get laid (or so Stiles tells them - he read in his dad’s file) and that seems massively fucked up.

Lydia’s shaken to the core, as much by the fact that she’s losing time as by the bloody guy with the purity ring.  Stiles frowns and makes her a hot cocoa with the exact number of tiny marshmallows she likes while Jackson rubs her back.  They share a look and Jackson glances away, pretending they’re not thinking the same thing.  Because he doesn’t want Stiles thinking it.

That there’s something _wrong_ with her.

Because if he starts thinking it about Lydia, he’s bound to start thinking it about Jackson.

* * *

It’s virgins.  Lydia and Stiles think this thing is going after virgins and something goes haywire with Stiles’ scent.  Jackson’s eyes widen and he can’t stop staring.   _He’s untouched_ gets pushed aside in favor of, _he’s in danger_.  His wolf’s claws dig into his chest like it’s trying to rip its way out and he hunches over himself and breathes deep.  He can feel it tunneling up to the surface and something tears itself across his gaze.  He knows his eyes are flashing from vibrant blue to calmer grey and back and he firmly keeps his head down.

Derek puts a hand on his shoulder, pinches into it with his claws and a sub-vocal growl rumbles through Jackson’s chest.

Jackson’s eyes _burn_ for half a second and something in him _rages_ at the thought of being controlled again but then his wolf gives in, backing down with an injured whine.  He shrugs Derek off bodily, fighting the urge to snap his jaws at him as he shrugs back into his own will.  Hating himself even more for losing it again.

He finds Isaac’s eyes when he can finally raise his head.  He looks pale but determined and they both shift their gaze to Stiles in silent agreement.

* * *

Jackson follows Stiles after lacrosse practice, because Isaac has to put in face time with his foster parents.  He keeps his distance, stays out of sight, and tries not to let his wolf tear through too forcefully as he keeps pace with Stiles’ rickety old Jeep.

Jackson’s seen Stiles on both sides of the new moon now and the animal inside him has no ability to whet its appetite with distant gazes and snatches of his scent the way his conscious mind does.  No, then there’s grazing, stroking, inhaling and he has to jerk himself raw in the shop’s bathroom just to be able to stand near him and not want to rip out of his skin.

Boyd’s watched him with shrewd eyes ever since that first full moon and Jackson knows he’s caught onto his increasingly instinctual behavior around Stiles.

He doesn’t say anything, because he’s Boyd and – even if they are his Pack – he won’t let himself trust the connection.  Though it’s clear he wants to.

Jackson sits in the tree outside Stiles’ window and closes his eyes, kicking his foot as it hangs off the branch.  The moon is waxing gibbous tonight and it’s light enough to see the grass rustling down below him.  He evens out his breathing, unconsciously matching it to the tempo of Stiles’ heartbeat.

He’s quiet now but in the Stiles-way, where there’s still noise and movement.  He’s tapping his pencil in an erratic rhythm against his textbook and rocking his sneaker back and forth against the bar under his desk, so Jackson can hear the squeak of the rubber sole.  It’s reassuring in a way it shouldn’t be.

He dozes in and out, listening to the cicadas and seeing brief flashes of firefly lights behind his eyelids, all while Stiles’ quiet noise soothes the beast in him to a snoring slumber.  He’s humming under his breath, content, when the heartbeat spikes.

Jackson jolts upright and blinks into Stiles’ window.  He doesn’t know what’s causing it but there’s nothing but pure _terror_ rolling off of Stiles in growing waves and he’s fallen in a tangle of limbs from his desk chair and is scrabbling at his neck.  His face is red and his own nail marks are scraped deep into his throat while his eyes bug.

Jackson breaks the glass rather than wasting any time sliding it open.  His heart’s seizing in his chest as he watches Stiles writhe on the ground.  He growls, “Stiles, what is it?  What’s happening?  I can’t _see_ it.”  He pitches himself over him and tries to pull Stiles’ hands away from his neck but he starts shaking his head wildly, trying to claw at it again.  His teeth are gritted together tight and Jackson’s voice goes low and commanding.  “Let me see.”

Tears are streaming down Stiles’ face but he unclenches his teeth and Jackson can’t see anything.  He’s never felt so helpless because he can feel the wild palpitations of Stiles’ heart bouncing off the insides of his ribcage and the shallower and shallower inhales Stiles’ lungs are pulling in.  He’s _dying_ and Jackson has no idea why or how to stop it.

He tries to throw off the whining panic of his wolf but it shoulders him away, breaks through – claws and teeth and fangs – and howls low and mournful.

The terror in Stiles increases tenfold and Jackson looks down at him through a red fog that he knows Stiles only sees as blue.  His fangs are overcrowding his mouth and the wolf wonders vaguely if it can get Derek there in time to turn him.  Whatever is killing Stiles hasn’t affected him, maybe he’d be protected if Derek gave him the bite.

He howls again, this one a call rather than a lament.

Stiles’ eyes are rolling back and his scrabbling fingers are growing weaker and Derek’s not going to get there in time.  Jackson headbutts Stiles’ chin back, pinches his nose and breathes deeply into his mouth.  Stiles’ hands go to his shoulders, stronger and squeezing, so Jackson pulls back and does it again.  His fangs have receded somewhere between the first and second breath and this one slots their mouths together better.

He feels Stiles inhale his breaths and his lungs are expanding fully.  For whatever reason, Jackson’s breath seems to work.  He’s lost count of how many times he’s forced air into Stiles’ lungs before Stiles holds him back by his shoulders and keeps him at bay.

He coughs and there’s spit on his beet red face and his eyes are bloodshot.  Jackson’s not sure he’s ever seen anything as beautiful.  “S’gone,” he chokes out.  He’s half-holding Jackson back with his hand and half-curling his fingers into his t-shirt above the frenetic tattoo of his panicked heartbeat.  His eyes look around almost maniacally.  “They’re gone,” he says and his voice is raw.  He’s still unsteady, his muscles weak and his breaths tremulous.

Jackson can hear his heartbeat starting to smooth out and he lets his own mirror it.  But as quickly as the calm comes, it’s gone and Stiles’ heart starts thumping wildly in his chest and his breaths are pulled in more sharply and less frequently.

Jackson’s eyes widen in fear but Stiles shakes his head and keeps him at arm’s length.  He motions to his neck and gasps out, “Panic—attack.”

Jackson exhales a breath, quivering with relief and presses his forehead to Stiles’.  He spreads his fingers out slowly on his chest and flattens his palm over the quickfire thump-thump-thump of Stiles’ heart and inhales a huge and steady breath.  Stiles stares at him, wide-eyed and with fear still trying to claw its way out of them.

His gaze flicks down to Jackson’s chest and he watches the calm heave-ho as though it’s hypnotic until his own heart starts to match it.  He lays back, dread slipping away from him and Jackson can feel it.  The danger’s passed and Stiles is perfectly alive beneath him.

Jackson goes boneless at the realization, the adrenaline that was keeping him upright swept aside by a weak-in-the-knees relief.  He hides his face in Stiles’ neck and _shakes_.  There’s sweat on Stiles’ skin and he smells like warmth and sun and something infinite and Jackson can’t believe he nearly lost all of that only moments ago.

Stiles’ hands come up almost hesitantly to cradle his sides, his fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, trying to comfort _Jackson_ when he’s the one who almost died.  He goes the slightest bit tense.  “I’m, uh,” he licks his lips, Jackson hears the wet sound from where his face is buried in the hollow between Stiles’ neck and shoulder, “I’m sure this is an insulting way to ask and I don’t mean it like that but, um, what _are_ you?”

Jackson’s still jittery, his muscles spasming and sore when he pulls himself away.  He opens his mouth but Stiles cuts him off.

“You’re a werewolf, aren’t you?  All of you are.”

Jackson blinks down at him in shock but he’s not done.

“Allison’s not but there’s something going on with her too.  You’re all on edge around her and the comments you make to Scott about her… Lydia, I don’t know, she’s pretty enough to be—”

Jackson slots their mouths together, pushes Stiles’ head back with the force of his kiss, not wanting him to finish the thought.  Through the terror, he hadn’t been able to appreciate the feel of Stiles’ mouth.  It’s like fire sweeping through him, scorching him from the inside out and leveling everything he’s built, and then Stiles presses back, _participates_.  He lets Jackson twist his tongue into his mouth, lets him lift him close by the small of his back but in return he curls his tongue _back_ and tugs Jackson _closer_.  It’s like riding the crest of a wave now, rolling in and out with it, ceding control to it.

Jackson rips away and his wolf whimpers.

Stiles blinks at him, dazed.  “Is that your version of, uh, ‘ding ding ding.’”

Jackson jerks away from him.  “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Stiles swallows, like he’s physically forcing down an argument to that, and he nods.  “Okay,” he answers back slowly.

Jackson firmly stomps down his unease and forces a smirk.  “Ding ding ding,” he makes himself drawl.

Stiles’ lips quirk up at him.  “I thought so.  You all get so jumpy around the full moon and I would swear Isaac is sometimes trying to rub his scent all over me.”  Jackson growls at the thought of Isaac _rubbing anything_ on Stiles.  “Yeah, and then there’s that.  Erica and Derek do that growl thing all the time.  It’s not a human imitating a growl either, it’s _animal_ , you know?”

Jackson nods and resists the urge to nuzzle into Stiles’ neck.  He has to get a hold over his wolf again.  He’s let it run too wild.

“Boyd’s just eerily quiet, always lurking in the background, so I can totally see him as, like, a lone wolf prowling around the edges of everything.  Scott just looks like a big puppy so I’ll buy he’s a wolf too.”

“Allison’s a hunter,” Jackson puts in.

Stiles blinks.  “Oh.  I guess, yeah.  Where there are werewolves there’d be werewolf hunters.”  Jackson can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not.  Stiles snorts.  “Scott’s kind of an idiot.  A loveable idiot, but still an idiot.”

Jackson grins a little at that before squeezing Stiles’ shoulder.  “Stiles, tell me what happened.”

Stiles pales instantly and he looks strained.  “You didn’t see it?”

Jackson shakes his head.

“It was roaches or beetles, something arthropidic.”  And only Stiles would be so scientific explaining his near-death experience.  “They were crawling all over me, down my throat and I couldn’t _breathe_ but I could feel—”

Jackson hauls him in by his shoulders and holds him close while Stiles shudders in his arms.  “You’re safe now,” Jackson says and it’s declaratory.

Stiles pulls in a deep, trembling breath and nods with his head tucked up under Jackson’s chin.

They stay like that for a long time.

Jackson doesn’t leave, he can’t.  Stiles doesn’t ask him to.  

He curls up behind Stiles in his bed once he feels settled enough to get there and slips his fingers in between Stiles’, resting their entwined hands over the now calming beat of his heart.  He can feel the taut self-consciousness of Stiles’ body and noses in behind Stiles’ ear to put him more at ease.  When he evens his own breaths, Stiles drops off to sleep only a few moments later.

Jackson doesn’t.  The image of Stiles groping at his own neck, desperate for his next breath, keeps his eyes firmly open.  He watches the rise and fall of Stiles’ chest, the steady ins and outs of his breaths until his gaze goes unfocused.  He squeezes his hand around Stiles’ and his heart unclenches a little more.

* * *

They find out about the girl, Emily, the next morning.  Jackson hides in Stiles’ closet while Stiles’ dad tells him to stay safe.  He sounds like a man barely hanging on and Jackson’s glad he hadn’t seen Stiles’ brush with death the night before.  He has the feeling the bags under his eyes would be at least twenty pounds heavier if he had.

He swings his bleary eyes over to the source of the chill breeze in Stiles’ bedroom and gapes.  “What the hell happened?”

Stiles’ eyes widen as he takes in the broken glass from his window that they had both forgotten to clean up.  He blinks when his dad hauls his attention back around.  “Kind of thought I dreamed that,” he says awkwardly but he’s slowly shrugging into believability as he livens up.  “I think a branch must’ve broken through it.  I heard it happen but I was half-asleep so I assumed it was more in my head than out of it.”  He shrugs.  “I was totally having _Poltergeist_ -esque dreams so it wasn’t even that strange in the grand scheme of things.”

The Sheriff drags a hand down his face and nods.  It looks like he believes Stiles’ account that _he_ thinks it was a tree but he certainly doesn’t seem to buy into that himself.  “I’ll have it fixed by the time you’re back from school,” he says tightly.  He points a finger at Stiles.  “Straight there and straight back, I mean it.  You don’t have work today so no dawdling with Isaac or Lydia.”

Stiles salutes dutifully.

Jackson waits until the Sheriff’s out of the house entirely to ease open the closet door.

“Wasn’t sure if you’d left or not.”  Stiles bites his lip and slides out of bed, looking uneasy.  He shrugs a shoulder.  “I wonder why it gave up on me last night.  Why it went after the girl, Emily.”

“I wasn’t going to let you die.”

Stiles blinks at him, like the declaration – or maybe the fierceness of it – takes him by surprise.  “Thanks for that, by the way.”

Jackson nods stiffly.

“I—” Stiles takes a step forward.

Jackson takes a step back.

“Okay.”  But the sour-sweet scent coming off him says it’s not.

* * *

Jackson keeps his distance from Stiles the best he knows how, while his wolf searches endlessly for him.  Every time he shifts, he finds himself curled up beneath Stiles’ window, the one that now smells of sealant and fresh sweat, or resting with his head on his paws up in the branch across from it.

The few times they overlap at the shop, Jackson’s inexplicably drawn to him.  He watches him stack boxes like it’s a particularly fascinating play, his gaze going sharp when Stiles’ shirt rides up and a pale strip of skin taunts him.  He knows, intimately, how warm it would be, how Stiles’ hip would fill his palm like it was made to be held by him.  He feels like an addict and it’s dangerous how little control over this he has.

When Isaac finds out what happened in Stiles’ bedroom, he grabs Jackson up in a bear hug and Jackson lets him because Stiles’ scent is sunk deep in the fibers of his clothes, clinging to him.  Jackson wants nothing more than to forget the awful memory altogether but a part of it pulls at him and he corners Derek in his loft after he’s let it pick at him for days.

One whiff and his face twists up darkly.  “You were fucking the English teacher?  Stiles almost _died_ and you almost _let him_ so you could get your dick wet?  Fuck you, Derek.”

Derek’s shoulders tighten to an unholy degree and he snaps, “He’s not _Pack_.”

Jackson’s first instinct is to challenge him, before he sees the tremor that races down Derek’s back.  He knows he’s fucked this up and he’s lashing out rather than taking responsibility.  It’s not a surprise really, Derek’s always acted like an injured and cornered animal since Jackson’s known him. “You didn’t know why I needed you.  You didn’t care either,” he says softly and it’s a betrayal that cuts deep and to the quick.  He’s never asked more of Derek than he was willing to give and the one time he needed him to step up, to be more than a figurehead, to be _his Alpha_ , he’d failed miserably.

It’s opened up a chasm between them and he’s not sure it’s one Derek can traverse even if he wanted to. And Jackson fucking _needs_ this Pack but Derek would rather get his rocks off than hold it together.

He shrinks back and lets out a wounded breath.  “You have to be better than this.”  And he’s not saying it to strike a blow to Derek’s pride, he’s saying it because Derek _has_ to be better than this if he wants his _Pack_ to be one of intelligent werewolves and not feral wolves.  He pierces Derek with neon blue eyes.  “You _have_ to.”

Derek manfully resists the urge to sneer, to bite back.  He steels himself and nods his head once.

It’ll have to be enough.  At least for now.

* * *

It gets easier to pull away from Stiles when he starts to pull away from all of them too.  At least that’s what Jackson had thought he was doing, occupying himself inside his own head when he worked at the shop rather than rambling nonstop to Boyd – who is his closest and most captive audience stuck next to the oven as he is, putting Isaac off when he tried to spend time with him, not bothering to research with Lydia when the newest body didn’t match the pattern and turning down nearly every offer to spend time outside of work with them.

Isaac tries to look trusting and not heartbroken over the sudden retreat but the reassuring smiles Stiles gives him are starting to have less and less effect.

It’s not until Jackson’s running out in the Preserve, his wolf snuffling and snarling and chasing after every flurry of movement, when he recognizes the crackling in the air, the scent that isn’t a scent.  He comes up on it slowly, wary and exhilarated, only to find Stiles sitting a few steps above Derek on the front porch of the Hale house.

The smell of charred wood and unchecked growth is heavy in the air there.

Stiles is sitting with a massive book balanced and open on his thighs, tapping a pen against the rotted out step below him, the board splintered and the paint cracked.  He’s talking in a soft murmur to Derek, who’s staring out in the opposite direction and trying to behave as if he’s not listening intently.  Jackson knows better.  Stiles reaches out hesitantly and touches his elbow.  “You have power over them whether you want it or not,” he says carefully.  “You have to stop being afraid of it.”

The leaves rustle, orange and red tumbling over and into each other.  The woods are thin and Jackson makes sure to stay in the patchy shade of the half-naked trees, far enough away that they’re unlikely to notice him.  Dead grass spreads out in a portentous circle around the decaying foundations of the ramshackle house, but the strong blare of the sun makes it look golden rather than brown.

Derek snarls softly.  He’s still not looking at Stiles, instead watching the wind catch more of the clinging leaves with hooded eyes.  “I’m _not_ afraid of it,” he snaps back.  His body language is strung tight and it’s clear the effort of sitting still, of letting Stiles speak to him at all, is a massive one.

“It’s better that than power hungry,” Stiles tells him without judgment.

He’s choosing his words more carefully than Jackson’s ever heard him do.  He’s beginning to realize that Stiles has been spending all this time away from them for the singular purpose of breaking down Derek’s defenses, enough for _this moment_ right here – where Stiles can talk to him like an equal.  He can’t imagine how much of an uphill battle it must have been for him to get to this point.  And now he’s moving slowly and cautiously, clearly fearful that the slightest misstep might make Derek run.

Derek shifts next to him, not allowing for more than an agreeable grunt.

Stiles seems happy enough with that though.  He’s clearly glad to know he’s defused the situation enough that Derek’s not still snappish and tense.  He stares down at the book in his lap and blinks owlishly.  “You can feel it, can’t you?” he asks, looking at Derek openly.  “The cracks in the finish between them?”  He squeezes the point of Derek’s elbow where his hand had been resting gently and pulls away.  “You’re meant to shore them up, fill them in, smooth over the rough edges and fit them together but you don’t trust them.”

Derek doesn’t answer but his expression grows tighter.  Jackson wonders what it must be like for him, to know that a kid who’s known him for five minutes has already picked up on his isolation and inability to rely on anyone or anything other than himself.

Stiles sighs to himself and runs his fingers over the edge of the book’s pages, flipping up the corner and letting it go with a zipping sound.  “You’ll have to trust someone sometime.  You’ve actually done a pretty good job picking them, Derek.  They won’t betray you if you don’t give them a reason to.”  He glances at Derek from his periphery and his thumb catches and releases the pages again and again.  _Zip_.  _Zip_.  _Zip_.  He stops, worries his lower lip between his teeth and bursts out suddenly, “Ms. Blake—Jennifer.  Derek, don’t let it be her.”

And Jackson wants, _needs_ , to know what’s behind the warning.  Something half-sick curls up in his gut as he realizes it has to be jealousy.  Stiles has to want Derek for himself and that’s what’s truly behind him pulling away from all of them but _him_.  Jackson has to restrain himself from bounding over and challenging Derek for him.

Derek doesn’t sense that.  All he senses is _threat_ from the words.  He whirls on Stiles, growling low and red-eyed and leaning over him like he means to tear _into him_.  Because he has no idea what a gift he’s being offered.  He has no idea what having Stiles under him, opening to him, can feel like.  Jackson hopes he never does.

He starts to advance, protective and snarling, but Stiles carefully eases Derek back by his shoulder, slow and steady like he’s dealing with a feral dog.  It sickens Jackson that that’s basically what his Alpha is.  Stiles swallows uneasily and waits for the red to flicker away from Derek’s gaze before he says, measured, “She zeroed in on you, Derek, with a single-minded determination.  I don’t know what she wants from you but there’s something not _right_ with her.”  He fiddles with the pen between his fingers and visibly steels himself.  “Not to mention, the timing of…” Stiles makes a random, nonsense gesture with his hand to indicate Derek fucking her, “it’s suspicious to say the least.  I’m not saying don’t be with her,” Stiles adds quickly, “just… keep your wits about you if you’re _going to_ be with her.”

Derek looks torn between wanting to heed Stiles’ advice and snarl in his face for daring to offer it.  He settles back down on the step, not giving any indication one way or the other, and says abruptly, “What does your stupid book say on how to manifest the Pack bond?”

Stiles smiles at him with a hint of uncertainty and says, “You have to open yourself up to them first.”  He places his hand on Derek’s shoulder and digs his fingers in as if he’s trying to express that he knows how much easier said than done that is.  Derek lets him.  “Let them feel you and then the bond should start to trickle back until it’s strong both ways.  Then the Pack should function like a _Pack_.”  He stares down at the book in his lap, running the pen down the page sideways while his eyes fly over the lines of text.  “They will ‘show deference to you’ and in return you will ‘protect and nurture’ them.”  He nudges Derek in the shoulder with his knee and squints.  “It’s not nearly as hard as you’re making it.  You’re actively working _against_ it forming.”

Derek’s jaw tightens, like he wants to dispute the words but he knows how flat the argument would fall.  He glances away from Stiles but he still hasn’t removed the hand from his shoulder and that speaks louder than any words.

“I know I can’t speak for all of them but Isaac, at least, needs stability.”  Stiles squints out into the trees exactly where Jackson is poised and waiting but he’s confident Stiles’ gaze can’t reach him.  “I think they all do.”  He looks back at Derek without pity or recrimination, only a soft warmth touching his eyes.  “Because you picked kids who were as lonely as you.”  Derek tenses instantly and Stiles’ gaze flitters away from him to give the illusion that his attention is anywhere else, but the hand on Derek’s shoulder squeezes.  “Right now that’s a weakness because you’re all used to being on your own, to never relying on anyone but yourselves, but it has the potential to be a fierce strength, too.  You just have to let them in and hope they follow your lead.”

Derek’s answer is a gruff, low noise from the back of his throat.  Somehow, it sounds like a promise.

* * *

When the music teacher is killed, Stiles drags himself back to Lydia and pulls her away with a rambling, frantic explanation that Jackson can’t make sense of, even with his preternatural senses.  He comes back to the shop after it’s closed, after he’d asked them all to meet him there with a terse text that promised an explanation.  He walks straight up to the blackboard with their specials written on it, wipes a hand across it messily, and says, “We know what’s coming next.”

“And what’s responsible for it,” Lydia puts in.

Stiles shares a look with Lydia and draws a crude version of a Celtic five-fold knot.  Inside each section he writes one of the following:

_Virgins_

_Warriors_

_Healers_

_Philosophers_

_Guardians_

Under the drawing, he writes bigger than all the other words:

**Darach**

He underlines it twice before drawing a strike through ‘Virgins.’  He taps the chalk next to the word ‘Warriors’ and looks up at Boyd.  He licks his lip.  “The first victim under warriors, he was ROTC like you, right?”

Boyd nods uneasily.

Stiles swallows and glances back at Lydia.  “Then someone will stay with you until we either know what it is that’s doing this or it’s killed a third.”  His voice is hard, like a military commander explaining triage and Jackson hates how quickly they’ve turned him into that.

Stiles’ eyes start the trek over to Jackson’s but he forcibly pulls them back before their gazes can meet.  “We think this thing only attacks when you’re alone, vulnerable.  When someone else is there,” Stiles pauses and the hair on Jackson’s neck stands on end as he tries to _will_ Stiles to look at him, “it seems to negate its effects.”

Derek steps up by Boyd’s shoulder and places his hand there, warmly and somewhat awkwardly, and the protest that had been building in him evaporates.  And it’s not through intimidation or abuse of power, it’s because it’s Derek’s way of _asking_ him to accept their help and Derek doesn’t do that.  They’d all pretty much assumed he didn’t know how to.

Boyd dips his chin in agreement.

Stiles grins at Derek, gaze glittering with victory and pride.

Derek rolls his eyes but he can’t quite suppress the pleased tilt of his lips.

* * *

Harris goes missing two days later.  Stiles grimly makes another strike through ‘Warriors’ on the board they now keep in the back. It’s a morbid relic hiding in their once peppy coffee shop, the atmosphere of it now much more dour and dark.

Jackson’s found Stiles standing in the storeroom more than once, staring unblinkingly at the words he’d written days earlier.  He’s watched his eyes dart down to the emboldened ‘Darach’ before shifting back up, his mind trying to puzzle it out and his shoulders slumping in a little further each day he doesn’t.

It takes everything Jackson has in him not to pull him into the protective shelter of his body, and then into his bed.

* * *

When the first doctor is killed, Scott becomes freakishly alert.  He hovers around his mom to the point of dehydration and she finally has to _force_ him to go back to school and start taking care of _himself_.  None of them can seem to calm him, though they’ve all tried.  Stiles had said it was like trying to keep someone from blinking.  Jackson watches him shoulder into Derek and look pointedly at Scott, who’s sitting on the curb outside the shop while he waits for his mom’s shift to end.

Derek looks wary but he gives in to Stiles’ push and goes.

Jackson can’t hear what they’re saying from inside but after a few minutes he feels something hot press into, _through_ his chest and he jerks upright.  It’s faint, like a brief glimmer of something warm and soothing, and then it shifts to something sturdier, something _wider_.  It’s a shield, bracketing everything behind his ribs, and he feels strong.  Stronger than he’d thought he could be and his eyes widen as he realizes it’s not him: it’s _Derek_.

Derek projecting through the unstable bond that stretches and trembles between them.   _Derek’s_ their shield.  It’s gone in the blink of an eye and Jackson catches himself on the counter, feeling winded and weak-kneed.

Stiles is watching him with a small, satisfied smile on his face before he glances back out the window at Derek.  His hand is curled over Scott’s neck and Scott is leaning closer to him than he was before and Jackson realizes that the link was meant for Scott.  He’d only felt an echo of it and it had nearly been enough to floor him.

He can practically feel the bond between all of them tighten and go taut as slowly he feels emotions poured back into it.  He can’t distinguish one from the next but the message is clear.  They’re the swords rallying behind Derek’s shield.

Stiles’ grin is blinding now.  Jackson finds himself smiling stupidly back.

* * *

Stiles is still not around at the shop as much as he once was, but Jackson seems to be the only one finding fault with that.  He sequesters himself with Lydia most days and Jackson gets the feeling that they’re talking about far more than just the ‘Dark Druid’ with the Celtic knot.  Only the fact that Lydia’s perfume hovers around him rather than twists _through_ him keeps Jackson’s wolf calm.

The time that Stiles isn’t with Lydia, Derek is teaching him how to defend himself against werewolves through stealth and a well-stocked armory.  He learns self-defense and how to make wolfsbane bullets and Derek seems genuinely invested in seeing him live through all this.

When Jackson realizes it, he feels the chasm between them shrink to a crack.

When he’s home, Isaac’s always with him as he’s unofficially moved into the Stilinski household.  It’s strange but Jackson thinks Isaac is just as fond of the Sheriff as he is of Stiles.  He’s felt the flutter of pure joy that came through the bond when the Sheriff dropped him at the shop, called him ‘son,’ and reminded him about his curfew.

In fact, it’s only Jackson that’s left almost entirely out of his life but he knows that’s his own fault.  (And Scott, but that’s because two doctors are dead and he’s too frantic about his mom to even pay attention to _Allison_.)

He makes up for it by sleeping most nights in the tree outside Stiles’ window, letting the soothing beat of his heart lull him into a doze.  Isaac knows he’s there and has from almost the beginning but Jackson feels his acceptance through the bond.  So, for now at least, the secret’s safe between them.

* * *

In his waking moments, he’s still unconsciously drawn to Stiles.  His wolf effectively leading him around by the nose.  He’s never been gladder about opening the damn shop as, since Stiles started backing away from him, it’s the only thing they seem to share now.

He overhears Derek and Stiles talking quietly in the storeroom, even though he has no cause to be there and he can’t really remember how he got there anyway.

Stiles hisses, “You were half-dead and she was still trying to talk you out of leaving your loft.  I’m telling you, it’s all about distracting you.  We know the last doctor died last night.”

Derek’s shoulders shift like he has an itch he can’t scratch.  “It’s not her.”

Stiles shakes something between them.  Jackson can’t see it but he can hear it.  “Just take it, Derek.  Promise me that if you see an opening, you’ll take it.”

Derek takes whatever Stiles is offering.  Jackson watches him clench his jaw in profile before he turns away.  It feels like a long time before he says tightly, “I will.”

* * *

Lydia finds the body in the middle of the night but not before calling in Isaac and Stiles.  Jackson overhears the conversation from outside Stiles’ window and he stretches and considers tailing them when his own phone rings in his jacket pocket, where it’s slung over the branch.

Jackson shifts back, bones cracking and skin _stretching_.  He rides it out and up into a yawn.  Isaac’s head twitches towards him and he jerks it in the direction of the door while Stiles’ back is turned.  Jackson nods and drops down from the tree with barely a _whump_ to announce his landing.

He’s missed the call – though he already knows what it contains since he’s heard it once – so he texts Lydia: _On my way_.

He reaches the school at the same time Lydia does and Isaac and Stiles aren’t far behind.  They naturally default to following Lydia’s lead.  The three of them are watching her unblinkingly when she turns around and snaps, “ _I_ didn’t kill whoever it is, stop looking at me like I know where the body is.”

Stiles offers her a grimace that was probably supposed to be a grin.  “You are sort of a divining rod for dead things, Lyds,” he tells her apologetically.

Lydia huffs but can’t exactly refute it.  She whirls around and stomps away from them with purpose.  None of them point out that she seems to know exactly where she’s going.

Jackson can barely focus on the exchange.  He hasn’t been this close to Stiles in a long time and he shifts even closer to his shoulder, breathing more deeply than he might have otherwise.  He doesn’t notice how much he’s drifted over until the sides of their hands brush with a jolt.  Isaac and Lydia are whispering about whether or not they think the Darach is still in the school but it’s faint and Jackson realizes that matching Stiles’ pace has let them fall far behind.

Stiles slows to a stop and Jackson turns to look at him, blinks.  He crosses his arms over his chest like a shield.  “Are you after my organs or something?”

Jackson turns around to look over his shoulder, half-expecting Stiles is addressing a looming Darach, because otherwise that made no sense.  Which, admittedly, is kind of a Stiles-speciality.  There’s nothing but empty air.

Stiles just looks annoyed with him on top of everything else now.  “You—You stepped _back_ , okay?”  He gestures between them, jaw clenched, like he’s making perfect sense.  “So what is this if not a clever ruse to get me into an ice bath somewhere?”

Jackson fights with himself not to step back _now_ and Stiles glares at him like he knows it, too.  He’d thought they would continue not drawing attention to _them_ through silent agreement for the rest of eternity.

Stiles rolls his eyes, scowling.  “You’ve shown up so many times when I turn around that I’m starting to just consider you the world’s most lifelike and least subject-appropriate shadow ever.  Seriously, it’s as if Abercrombie & Fitch started renting them out.”  He holds up two fingers, scowl deepening.  “My dad’s commented _twice_ on the wolf the size of a minivan that keeps prowling around our property.  Which means, thanks to you, he’s now convinced I’m hiding steak somewhere in the house and yesterday I found him looking through my _underwear drawer_ for some pocket of refrigerated air where I’m keeping forbidden meats because he is a sick, sick man.”

Jackson bites back a laugh because, underneath the humor, Stiles still looks gutted.  “So what, what do you _want_ , Jackson?”  There’s a sharp edge of pleading there and he sounds… defeated more than anything else.  “It sure as fuck isn’t me and I’m driving myself insane trying to guess.”

Jackson swallows, watches the half-light from the quarter moon shine over Stiles’ tired face, sees it touch the sleeplessness under his eyes and the lines around his mouth.  He jerks his head towards the school.  “We should catch up to Isaac and Lydia,” is all he can bring himself to say.  He remembers losing himself to the push-pull of Stiles’ mouth, trusting him to take his control, and he _wants_ that more than he knew it was possible to want.  But he can’t offer that, not when he can’t be sure what he might be setting free.

Stiles snorts like he expected nothing less and follows a measured few steps behind him.

Isaac and Lydia have already found the body when Jackson and Stiles get to them.  Jackson sees the badge sewn into the arm before anything else and he has to fight down the urge to shift but it’s not—It’s a woman.  Jackson looks to Stiles and he’s fallen back a step, face pale.  He can’t seem to decide if he wants to run _to_ her or run _away_ from her.

Jackson takes the decision out of his hands.  He pulls Stiles into his arms, his eyes peeking over Jackson’s shoulder at the dead woman’s face.

“Take Lydia home.”

Isaac startles at being addressed but nods.  There’s a brief push through the bond of concern and solidarity before it rolls back.  Jackson lets Isaac’s calm ease him into his own and he nods back to him before he leads Lydia away.

Jackson steers Stiles to one of the stone benches farther down the open hallway and away from the low wall the woman is propped up on like a ventriloquist’s dummy.

“I knew her,” Stiles says numbly.  He taps his first three fingers against his mouth, talking in a high, fast pitch.  “So it’s Guardians then.  It’s going after guardians.  Derek and Isaac and—” Stiles’ eyes flicker to Jackson blankly but he’s not asking, more like doing a head count, “you, you’ll stay with my dad.  Make sure nothing happens and Lydia and Deaton and I will—”

“Stiles, stop.  Mourn her.”

“Tara,” Stiles says.  “Her name was Tara.  Is?”  He laughs stiltedly.  “I don’t know which is right, not when all the Tara bits are snuffed out.”  He drags in a shaky breath.  “She helped me with my homework and brought me homemade macadamia nut cookies while still managing to keep them away from my dad and she was _good_.”

The bitter scent of loss is pouring out of him and it makes Jackson want to rip out of his skin, anything to make it stop.  His eyes flicker between the red haze of the wolf and back again.  His hand clamps down around Stiles’ on the cold stretch of bench between them.  Otherwise he pretends he’s alone there, because Stiles doesn’t seem to want any more than that.

He stares down at the ground, able to see the ants shifting grains of dirt aside one second and only a dark shadow the next as his wolf brushes the surface and sinks down again.

Neither one of them speaks.  They wait until Stiles’ breaths have stopped rattling in his chest before they stand up and go their separate ways without making eye contact again.

* * *

It isn’t until Mr. Westover is killed that they figure out it’s philosophers, not guardians, and Stiles breathes freely for the first time since he saw the blood caressing Tara’s cheek.  Isaac still hangs a little closer to the Sheriff than usual and Stiles offers him a warm smile whenever he notices it.

Since the night at the school, he’s _settled_ somewhat around Jackson.  He’s not so distant, not so closed off, and being left alone in the same room together no longer makes him edgy and tense.  So it’s not unsurprising when Stiles sits down next to him on the back alley stoop behind the shop, but it’s also not as shocking as it would have been only a few weeks before.

He squints back towards the closed door.  “You can feel them, can’t you, through the bond?  Derek and the others?” he clarifies.

Jackson nods carefully, unsure of where Stiles is going with this.

He knocks his knee against Jackson’s.  “You don’t let them feel you.”  There’s no accusation there.  It’s a statement of fact and nothing more.

Jackson watches him carefully, unsure how to explain that if he felt safe enough – _sane_ enough – to let anyone in, it would be Stiles before it was anyone else.  “I didn’t become a wolf when I was first bitten,” is what comes out of his mouth instead.

Stiles’ brow furrows.  “Isaac said the bite either turns you or kills you.”

Jackson closes his eyes at the words.  He doesn’t want to think about why Stiles and Isaac have discussed the bite.  He doesn’t want to think of Stiles as anything other than what he is right now.  Because _right now_ he’s fire and lightning and too much for any one person to handle.

“Or Secret Option C: a mutation of the bite,” Jackson says with a smirk and a soft snort.  He purses his lips.  “If you’re fucked up enough, that’s what it gets you.  It’s reptilian, ugly as you are inside, and made to be a weapon.  A weapon wielded by someone else.  I—” his voice catches, “I had no control, no willpower of my own when I was _it_.  All I wanted was to please.  Even before I—that was all I ever wanted.  To please the parents I thought were out there somewhere, make them regret thinking I was _nothing_ , until Erica told me they were dead.”

Stiles lets out a slight, wounded noise and Jackson feels something kick out in his chest that’s nothing more than contentment in its purest form at Stiles’ empathy for him.

“Do you know why we needed a new Sheriff?”  Jackson laughs, harsh and unamused, not sure why he’s admitting so _much_.  “Because I killed half the police force of Beacon Hills.  I wasn’t myself but I _felt_ it, all of it.  The blood, the _tearing_ , the biting.  I felt it as clearly as this moment but I couldn’t stop it.  You don’t know what it’s like, to be helpless to stop yourself, to be subject to whims entirely not your own.”

“It’s why you can’t let them in,” Stiles breathes knowingly.

Jackson nods.  “I won’t, not when I don’t know what they’re going to find.”

Stiles grabs his shoulder and digs his fingers in.  “That wasn’t you, Jackson.  You’re not dangerous and you’re not a weapon.  You have a Pack, you have a connection now.  You can lean on them as much as they lean on you.”

“You hope,” Jackson says wryly but he doesn’t feel it.

Stiles’ eyes widen and he blurts out as though struck by the thought, “Oh God, Derek.”

Jackson huffs.  “Yeah, Derek.”  He remembers vividly his wolf submitting to him entirely against its will.  He rubs his forehead.  “Thank you for…”  He makes an encompassing motion with his hand.

Stiles looks somewhere between appalled and shocked.  “I had no idea.  If I had, I would have kicked his ass about it so much sooner.”  He ducks his head, scrapes at the edge of the step with his shoe.  “I did it for Isaac.  He had a Pack and yet he was still so alone, as alone as I was.  Derek had to be better than that.”

Jackson curls his fingers around the toe of Stiles’ shoe and squeezes before letting go, remembering himself saying those exact same words.  “And you.”  Stiles’ eyes widen and Jackson sees hurt and denial streak across his face.  “Being with you, it makes me want to let you take control.”

“But you don’t trust me enough to?” he hazards, eyes narrow and shining.

Jackson snorts and shakes his head.  “I don’t trust _myself_ enough to.  I barely have control, Stiles.  I still feel someone else, _something_ else beneath my skin that doesn’t answer to me.  I can’t give you power over me, not before I have power over myself.”

Stiles touches the back of his hand with soft fingertips.  “I understand,” he says, and he actually seems to.  “You know though, that it would be a give _and_ take.  That you’d always have a say.”  His throat clicks as he swallows.  “Just because you give yourself up to me, it doesn’t mean you can’t take yourself back.”

Jackson _wants_ to, wants _him_ more than he can put into words.  “I–I can’t.”

“I know,” Stiles says gently and there’s no bitterness there.  He presses his fingers more firmly to Jackson’s hand before he’s standing and slipping back inside.

Jackson blinks itch-dry eyes and it’s barely a full minute before the hinges of the door are screeching back open.  But it’s not Stiles this time.

Erica’s heels click-clack down the steps and she sits down next to him.  One look at her face says she’d been standing close by, near enough to hear everything he’d said.  Jackson wants to hate her for it but he’s too tired, too empty to dredge up the emotion.  It had been a moment that was meant to be just for them, one where Jackson could be more honest and Stiles could be more serious than either of them had dared to be in years.  She reaches out, folds his hand between her own and doesn’t say a word.

* * *

The ethics teacher dies in the middle of a school-wide recital.  Stiles seems to consider it a personal failure that he hasn’t sussed out who’s responsible yet.  He spends more time than ever staring at the blackboard in the back room.

Jackson finds him fast asleep there more than once.  He makes Isaac take him home and sits in the same spot, warm from Stiles’ body heat, until his scent fades from the room.

* * *

Whatever Stiles had pushed onto Derek over a week before in the storeroom leads to the – in no terms uncertain – text from Derek: _It’s Jennifer Blake_.  It’s impossible to read anything about how the revelation affects him and the bond from Alpha to Beta is silent on the subject.

Jackson doesn’t know what it is that draws him to the school.  It’s silent so long after the doors have closed but it’s an ominous stillness, like the night they found Tara.  Stiles’ shaky laugh echoes in his memory, his small voice whispering that all the Tara bits were snuffed out.  That’s what this feels like.   All the light and life that would generally distract him from its glaring windows and cavernous hallways, snuffed out.

His wolf shifts, more alert, and the wall of locker doors tints red.  A whiff of crackle and fire makes his attention jerk sharply to the next open hall.  It takes him a moment to spot it, the casing popped open but the phone still functional.  There are two unread messages on the screen.

They’re both from Derek.  The first is the mass text with the three words announcing that their English teacher was the thing that had been sacrificing people all over town.  Three minutes before that he’d sent one other three word text.

_You were right_.

Jackson hears the squeak of rubber soles on linoleum from the other end of the school.  He knows the squeak of that rubber. His chin thrusts up until he has the location pinpointed.  Stiles’ heartbeat, erratic and hard, is a constant just beneath the scuffling noise.  Jackson’s control is nonexistent, ceded to the wolf and the _something_ , and he has no mind for patience or planning when he gets close enough to hear Stiles choking for air and then – his eyes flood _yellow_ – _her_.

“You realize you’ve brought this on yourself, Stiles?”  The tone is conversational but her voice is breathless from exertion.  “I had no issue with you but you just couldn’t stop _clueing_ _them in_ , could you?”

Stiles gasps and Jackson’s gaze narrows.  The lock on the door might as well have been tissue paper for all the effect it has at keeping him out.  The knob turns easily and anything human left in him is gone when he sees the garrote tight across Stiles’ palm where he is trying to pull it back from his neck.

_She’s_ standing behind him, crossing one hand over the other and pulling _tight_.

“Ah, and here’s the cause of it all now.”

Jackson tilts his head, trying to understand but the words are beyond him.  His fangs are growing more jagged, more crowded.  They don’t belong to the wolf, not anymore.

Stiles gives a massive tug, using the motion of his body to get more space between his neck and the garrote, and rasps out sharply, “ _Jackson_.”

His mind reorients in a snap and it’s clear from Jennifer’s cheery tone that she has no idea how close she came to being torn apart by whatever it is in him.  “It was bad enough with a rogue Alpha running around, leaving scratch and bite marks for anyone to find.  But _you_ ,” her gaze goes sharp, “you were a whole other barrel of laughs.  Killing like that, it draws _attention_.  Attention to _my_ town, attention your piss-ant little _Pack_ couldn’t fight off if you had ten years to learn how to be one and were twenty times more powerful.”

She grins and it goes too far up the left side of her face, like he’s staring at a funhouse mirror image of her.  “You left me no choice.  I had to create a _balance_.  You couldn’t fight them off but if I sacrificed to the Nemeton,” her grin widens, “it would reward me with enough power to keep them at bay.”  She’s manic now.  But there’s passion and fire in her and – as insane as the words are – it’s clear she _believes_ what she’s saying without a doubt.

“They are coming.”  She laughs high-pitched and loose after uttering the ominous phrase.  “You don’t get to go around so blatantly and abnormally murdering people without consequence.”  She blinks down at Stiles through her curtain of black hair, like she’s only just remembering he’s there.  “I have to kill him.”  Her dark eyes race back and forth over empty air, calculating.  “It still fits.  He’s an emissary, your Guardian.  Or,” she looks up at Jackson again, red lips twitching, “he _was_ your Guardian.”

Before Jackson can react, the window behind her explodes in and Derek’s bowling her over.  Jackson fights with the thing in him that wants to feel Jennifer’s blood drip down its teeth.  His gaze flits between red and back until he finally stomps on the thing’s neck and it backs off with a whine.  He needs to check Stiles.   _Stiles, Stiles, Stiles_ , he chants over the louder and louder, _Rip, Break, Kill_.

Stiles is scrambling away from where Derek is gripping Jennifer’s throat, the chair he’d been tethered to, broken into a few more pieces now.  One hand is at his neck, fingers scrubbing at the dark indent the garrote had left behind, while the other tugs inexpertly at the rope keeping the broken arm of the chair lashed to his forearm.  The veins in his neck are pronounced and his skin is red but quickly purpling.

Jackson stares down at his hands but that’s not what they are now.  Scales are blooming over his pale skin, claws lengthening, and the terror he feels at seeing them starts to fade in favor of seeking out someone who will know what to do with his rage, his _bloodlust_.  He curls over himself, something bright and warm, the edges of it frayed, bursts into his chest.   _Isaac_.  It’s his concern and fear and Jackson looks up to see him hovering in the maw of the door, wide eyes taking in Stiles’ heaving chest and Jennifer blasting Derek across the room.

There’s a half-second where their eyes meet and Jackson feels a slight _push_ , pinch-tight and heavy, and he knows it’s trust even if he’s never had it directed towards him before and then Isaac is going after Jennifer.  Jackson blinks.  The scales are gone and the claws have grown more curved, less sharp.  These belong to a wolf.

Stiles’ wheezing breaths are what draw him back into himself, let him shoulder back into the present.  The calamitous sounds, of wood splintering and metal creaking, are lost as background noise.

“Stop and slow down,” Jackson snaps, his knee pressing hard against the unrelenting floor.  He rests his thumb on Stiles’ jaw, cradles his neck with his palm.  He softens his tone.  “You’re going to make yourself sick breathing like that.”

Stiles offers him a shaky twitch of his lips but Jackson can’t look away from the stark lines of red in his amber eyes.  They look alien and malevolent and Jackson has to shove down another tide of flesh-tearing impulse against the thing that put them there.  Stiles laughs, breathlessly.  “You’d think I’d be a pro at this by now, right?”

“That’s not funny,” Jackson mutters darkly, using his claws to slice through the rope that’s still binding Stiles.

Stiles swallows down another strange rush of laughter and agrees, “It really, _really_ isn’t.”  His eyes are still dry and he’s blinking more than usual.  His hand is poised above the raw skin of his throat, cupped as though he wants to rub at it again but can’t bring himself to put pressure there.  “She called me something, an emissary.”  Stiles stares at him with searching eyes.  “What does that mean?”

Jackson swallows uneasily.  “I don't know.”

Stiles’ head dips once and he looks up at Jackson.  “You stopped it,” he says softly, voice slightly bowed with awe.

Jackson shakes his head.  “Isaac, he—” his voice bottoms out, “his concern for you...”  He presses the heel of his palm over his heart tightly against the sudden twinge.  He shakes his head again and changes tack.  “He had a split second to decide and he trusted me to stop, to put taking care of you above the rage I felt.  The rage I still feel.”

Jackson presses harder as the feeling _twists_ to something clawing, digging, trying to wrench him apart.  His eyes snap open wide when he realizes it’s Derek.  He’s pulling on all of them, eyes flashing bloody red as he waits for an opening to strike between Isaac and Jennifer.  He’s _asking them_ for help.  Only a month ago, he would’ve charged in with no regard for whether he lived or died and now he’s _drawing on them_ for power.

He can feel the others ceding their strength to him and Stiles reaches out and squeezes his hand.  “You have a heel on its neck.   _You_ fought it back and _you_ have control.”  Jackson swallows, remembers how close he came, how vivid the scales looked advancing across his skin only moments ago.  Stiles’ grip tightens and he purses his lips.  “Even if you _did_ lose your hold on it, you know now that your Pack can pull you back.”

And that’s what decides it.  He stops pressing _against_ the intrusion and pushes _back_.  He can feel Isaac’s gasp and then Derek is roaring, teeth becoming fangs, nose elongating into a muzzle and Jackson’s never seen him shift so easily.  In the confines of the classroom, Derek’s wolf looks even bigger than he remembers.  It’s a lumbering, unwieldy thing and Jackson can almost taste Jennifer’s surprise when she gets rid of Isaac only to catch sight of Derek bearing down on her the split second before his jaws are fastening around her neck.

Jackson sees a flash of something silver flare out to the side of the massive wolf and then swoop in.  Before he can figure out what’s happened, Jennifer’s scrambling away from Derek, hand at her neck.  It’s bloody but not torn.  Derek backs away, whimpering lowly, and Jackson can see the short end of a metallic ruler sticking out from just behind the joint of his front leg.

Jackson stands, the wolf – and _only_ the wolf – just below the surface and ready to act.  Stiles’ grip loosens but doesn’t break while the growl in Jackson’s chest builds to a crescendo.  He’s so focused on Jennifer’s weak attempts to distance herself from Derek, clambering back until her shoulders are pressed flat to the wall beneath the blackboard, that he doesn’t see her any faster than Jennifer does.

She’s not even a wolf when she yanks the ruler out of Derek and slashes Jennifer’s throat so deep with it that it almost decapitates her.  Her back is heaving with the force of her adrenaline, blonde hair curtaining her face and all Jackson can think is: _anyone but her_.

Erica’s head snaps around to meet his gaze head-on and her eyes are gold, verging on yellow, and fangs are overcrowding her mouth.  Jackson doesn’t try to disguise his horror that it was her who landed the killing blow.  He can see the same disquiet mirrored in her eyes.

Her hands are slick with the warm stickiness of blood.  It’s a rush of feeling that Jackson knows all too well, of strength and power and _rightness_ , and it’s beyond intoxicating.  He doesn’t even think she realizes she’s rubbing her fingers together, caressing the viscous liquid between them like she’s trying to _press_ it into her skin.  Behind her, Jennifer’s body goes eerily still.

When their gazes meet again, there’s something pushing aside the fear there, unbridled and raw and painted a vibrant blue.   _Hunger_ , pure and simple.

Jackson feels something like _warning_ trip down his spine.  He’s not sure there’s anything he can do for her now.  He pulls himself away from Stiles and picks up the hem of his shirt, yanking her hands under the fabric and forcibly and roughly scrubbing the blood away.  They’re still streaked, flaked with blood that managed to dry in places but she can no longer slide it, fascinated, between her fingers.

She glances up at him and a frisson of something passes between the Pack bond: gratitude, hopelessness, anger, fear, an amalgamation of too much to voice and far too much to feel.  He lets her put it all off on him in those few seconds because, for once, he feels his own baggage is checked enough to handle someone else’s.

He steps away from her and back into Stiles, who had apparently moved with him.  Stiles, who wears his past on his skin the way Jackson no longer does.  He lets his thumb rest against Stiles’ kicked-up pulse point and smoothes it down over the deep ravine in the middle of his neck. “I’ll live,” Stiles says, raspy.

He will.  Jackson can make sure of that now.

He backs Stiles up against the window, the blinds crumpling under his back, and stares into his wide, trusting eyes.  He can feel the Pack _in_ him, with him, a constant presence now that he’s let them through.  And he knows somewhere, beneath all of that, Stiles has dug his fingers in, unearthed something that Jackson has always considered best left buried, something deep that has the potential to be destructive when wielded by the wrong hands.

Jackson doesn’t think Stiles’ are the wrong hands.  For the first time, in longer than he cares to remember, he’s not afraid.  It doesn't matter what’s coming next, what his own trail of destruction might draw towards them or what the consequences of reawakening the Nemeton might be.

Stiles’ mouth opens at the first press of his lips, fingers curl into his back, and Jackson lets himself slip into the warm current of Stiles’ control.

**Author's Note:**

> Guess where I'm not? [You got it](http://wellhalesbells.tumblr.com/)!


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